“You don’t git no coal-ile on yo’ tail yit!” she bellowed. “But as soon as dem feathers gits dry, I got a good mind to try it!”
Skeeter looked at Ginny Babe Chew, and a cold chill ran down his spine. She was the one woman in Tickfall of whom every negro was afraid. She was a wicked, vicious, horrible old woman, whose little, green pig eyes glowed poisonously through the rolls of facial flesh. She possessed an ugly and venomous laugh, and generally ended her profane and vicious remarks with an irritating chuckle.
Ginny knew the history of all the people in Tickfall parish, both white and black, and most of her conversation on ordinary occasions was a discussion of their characters. She especially loved to drive nails in the coffins of moribund reputations.
Now she sat down heavily and began a conversation upon her favorite theme.
“I done wucked in de house of eve’y white man in dis parish whut is able to hire he’p,” she bawled. “I knows all de fambly secrets, an’ I done got my little, bullet eye on all de fambly skelingtons. I’s made acquaintance wid all de niggers in dis parish, too, an’ I tells you dis—some niggers is bad, an’ yuther niggers is wusser; but dar ain’t no good niggers, livin’ or dead! I knows ’em! So I spends my happy old age findin’ out all de bad I kin about ’em!”
“Yes’m,” Skeeter gasped, looking at her with frightened eyes.
“All you niggers in Tickfall—whoof!” the old woman exploded.
“I hopes we is as good as most niggers,” Skeeter said timidly.
“Whoof!” the old woman exploded again. “Does you want me to tell you whut I knows about you, Skeeter Butts?”
“Fer Gawd’s sake, no’m!” Skeeter quavered. “My memory is powerful good.”